1432R.xyz/blog

Cyberspace. A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation, by children being taught mathematical  concepts . . . A graphic representation of data abstracted from the banks of every computer int he human system. Unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the nonspace of the mind, clusters and constellations of data. Like city lights, receding . . .

Why have we become like gods as technologists and like devils as moral beings, supermen in science and idiots in aesthetics - idiots above all in the Greek sense of absolutely isolated individuals, incapable of communicating among themselves or understanding one another?

An artist is a man who digests his own subjective impressions and knows how to find a general objective meaning in them, and how to express them in a convincing form.

Mass unemployment is both a statistic and an empty feeling in the stomach. To fully comprehend it, you have to both see the figures and feel the emptiness.

I will never get quite used to being alive. It's a mystery. Always startled to find that I have survived.

And I will do it too - believe me. I will draw on some reservoir of will and get it done. Always do - always. And that's one of the worst lies I ever told. It's a strange world I am making but one I think is true and beyond that I cannot go.

Every work of art is a child of its time, while often it is the parent of our emotions. Thus, every cultural period creates art of its own, which can never be repeated again. An effort to revive art-principles of the past, at best, can only result in works of art resembling a still-born child. For example, it is impossible for us to relive or feel the inner spirit of the ancient Greeks. The sculptor's attempts to employ Greek principles can only achieve a similarity in form, while the work itself remains for all time without a soul. Such imitation resembles the antics of apes.

To dare is to lose one's footing momentarily; to not dare is to lose one's self.

The salvation of our fatherland is left to us craftsmen and tradespeople, but we are not equal to such a task, nor indeed have we ever claimed to be capable of it. This is a misunderstanding, and it is proving the ruin of us.

Yesterday I did not work. I had a sore left arm which gave me hell. Today it is gone. What strange aches we get, physical resentments against living I guess

going through the music we made in the beginning, almost all of it feels immature. the thoughtlessness and naivete of bad mixes and sloppy arrangements and too many or too little ideas and not enough of this or that so from the first second of playback you’re already cringing, dying to turn it off; making art is funny in that way. in that it can mean so much to you at one point in your life and really make you feel like you’re slitting your proverbial wrists in a proverbial public, and then a few weeks (or days, maybe hours) go by and for no clear reason you’ve reasoned to yourself that maybe you’ve created maybe the worst thing ever created.

People are often tempted to regard the Zen Buddhist as lacking in feeling; they might even call him unfeeling - not because the deepest part of him is unmoved, for this unmovedness can no more be perceived from the outside than the surface of the sea reveals the calm of its depths. The reason is, rather, that the Zen Buddhist is wary of making a show of his feelings and dislikes clothing them in words. Behind this dislike of words several motives lie hidden. First, his consciously cultivated, and in the end instinctive, aversion to the dishonesty of exaggerating. Because of his training, the Zen Buddhist is aware of the danger inherent in the expression of feeling: of saying more than you feel, and of meaning less than y0u say. He is much too sensitive to others not to realize how easy it is to red yourself of oppressive feelings by giving expression to them. Once you have told a person who has experienced a great sorrow how deeply you commiserate with his fate, so that he feels understood and is comforted by these sympathetic words, it is only too easy to think you have done justice to him and his feelings merely by this utterance. You then lose sight of him, thinking of him only from a distance and feeling for him only in memory, and turn again undisturbed to your own affairs. In this way you destroy the true sense of feeling and become more and more superficial. But the ultimate reason - and the decisive one - is that the Zen Buddhist is far from limiting his feelings of joy and compassion to human beings and to every aspect of human existence. He embraces in these feelings everything that lives and breathes, including animals and plants, and he does not shut out even the least among them. Words are powerless here."